The boats that pass and repass
Below my balcony
Are not boats at all
But the fantasies
Of people who are at the end of their ropes.
They might be made of flowers or birds.
But look now,
The sun is about to drop out of that
Luminous pink cloud
To set over the homes of the affluent.
The windows of their empty mansions
Reflect the setting sun
As if they are on fire.
It is without envy that I evoke them.
It is without wanting what they have
That I watch the sun set
On their outrageously extravagant vacancy.
Oh, my mistake!
The sun isn't setting, it is rising.
West is east.
And those mansions are not empty
But they are ruins
Full of colorful birds
Swooping in and out
Of windows of light.
Just another illusion
As we clean the slate
For a new reckoning.
